Almost Routine
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: You hear about tough love all the time. Maybe that's what it's called when your dad's kicking you around. But somehow you don't think that fits. And if it does, it doesn't matter. You just want to to go back to school.
1. Chapter 1

** Author's Note: Provided Nathaniel even is being beaten by his father, which isn't even a certainty, I've probably made it darker than it actually is. Tried a new writing style, but I'm still pretty disjointed. Yet another one of my crappy oneshots. **

Being literally kicked into the corner of the room is a gentle and tame action compared to the belt treatment. He lashes it across your back like a whip and the thin polyester material of your shirt isn't enough to keep the buckle from biting into your skin. You flinch inevitably and curl in a little on yourself, but you don't make a sound. You have more dignity than to do that. You'll lay there obediently. You'll take the pain like a man instead of crawling away the the lowly worm he seems to think you are.

He's yelling about something of course, whatever it may be this time. Did you let your sister get in trouble? Were you out too late doing 'god knows what?' Did you get a ninety-nine out of one hundred on your last exam? Whatever it is he's screaming about this time, you're not sure. For the time being you can't really hear anything. You've tuned out. The only thing that makes any sound at all is the harsh thwack of that metal buckle striking your back (its weird that your shirt hasn't ripped yet). And even that sound is faint. Like it's far away…

But the pain isn't faint. The pain is not far away. It's like fire, searing you to a crisp and the only thing at all you can do about it is to bite your lip and bear it in silence. "Stop it! You're going to kill him!" The anguished cry of your mother brings all the sound back at once. The belt hits your skin once more and that stomach churning thwack is loud as ever. You gasp without meaning to, but it's more out of surprise than pain. The next sound is said belt hitting the floor, as your father complies with your mother's request and pads out of the room.

She nervously skitters around and crouches in front of you, a worried hand placed on your sweaty cheek. "Nath? Honey?" She probably thinks you've fainted. You respond by simply pushing her hand away. She lets out a little sigh. Whether of relief or exasperation, you're not sure. Possibly both. Possibly neither. "I'll go call you in sick," she mumbles awkwardly and excuses herself with more quick, nervous steps. It's right then that it occurs to you that you're not going to skip another day. So you look like shit, that's fine. So you're in a helluva lot of pain, so much that it makes you realize he's been going easy on you lately, because you haven't hurt this much in months. That's fine too. You're not going to skip again. You have work to do there.

(And you can't stay in this fucking house any longer. That is inarguable.)

You roll over onto your hands and knees and start to pull yourself up. At first it's too much. The initial shock of the world tilting, the amplified burning in your your back, the aching in your gut and the throbs of your bruises. You tremble, only just managing to bear your weight in this feeble position. In another three seconds you can't even do that anymore. Your arms and knees fail you. You drop back to the hardwood floor in a pitiful heap.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you hazily realize just how kind the floor is. All the times he's slammed you down and all the times you've fallen, the floor has been there to catch you. Not very gently, no, but it _has_ caught you. And that's got to count for something.

You pull yourself up again. With jerky, awkward movements you're somehow able to stand. You force yourself to the staircase. Your legs are like pulsating deadweights and your arms aren't faring any better but you manage. You always manage. Gripping the banister, you sluggishly trot down the stairs and to the front door. You can hear your mother hanging up the phone in the living room. Daddy Dearest is nowhere to be found. He's driving Amber to school of course. You could almost hate her for that, you really could. And yet you don't. You love her. You love him too. Things would probably be easier if you didn't.

There's a thin, slate gray jacket of yours hanging up on the coatrack. You pull it on, muscles screeching in protest. Something's got to cover the bloodstains you're positive have taken up residence on your shirt. You leave quietly to be sure your mother doesn't notice you.

As you walk down the block, you wonder if you should take the long way around. Or a shortcut of some sort. Your father will be driving back now and you really, really don't want him to see you. That'd be bad. He doesn't care that you attend school while you're suffering. As long as whatever injuries he's dealt are hidden, he even drives you there with your sister. But when you're visibly limping, when bruises show and liquid crimson bleeds through, you have to stay home. Can't have people asking questions about where all that came from, oh no. So if he catches you walking (staggering, if you're honest with yourself) to school like you are now, you'll be in a lot of trouble. Undoubtably in for another, likely harsher, beating.

So you do take a shortcut. It involves hopping over a picket fence that's little over half your size, and you fall of course. The grass catches you this time. The grass is a little more gentle with you than the floor is, but it can't keep white hot pain from vibrating through out your entire body. You're pretty sure that stunt reopened a wound on your back because you feel fresh wetness trickling down your swollen skin. No…In fact, it probably just opened an already-open wound wider, as opposed to reopening a closed one. It's unlikely you would have scabbed over that quickly, right? Of course it is, what were you thinking?

You shakily raise to an unsteady stand and set off on your way again. This shortcut also involves cutting across lawns, some belonging to people you know, and that makes you a little apprehensive. You've got to be quick and jogging is probably the furtherest thing from what your body wants to do right now. Jogging isn't exactly what happens when you _do_ force your weary limbs to get a move on, but your pace is faster than a walk now. It's fast enough to get you onto the sidewalk without being noticed on private property and that's all the really counts. Treading up the block, you think about what will happen when you get back home tonight. You're in for another round with the belt, of course. Because whether or not he caught you on the way there, you will have gone to school. But you'll be able to handle whatever he throws at you by the time that comes around. You'll have had the entire day for your lesions to stale, your cuts to numb, and your entire body to brace itself. Not for the first time, you consider just not returning home. But you know you will. No matter how many times you think about leaving, you'll always go back.

The school's come into view now and you smile a little to yourself. It's strange but somehow you feel like this is an accomplishment. Maybe because you've actually managed to drag yourself this far, maybe because you know you have a temporary safe haven from that hell of a household, maybe because you've done it without getting caught and you feel like you've just one-upped him, no matter how hard he punishes you for it later tonight. You take note of the other students going inside ahead of you. You see Kim walking with Violette, her arm looped securely around the smaller girl's waist. There's Lynn talking with Peggy and a blushing Kentin alongside those twin brothers.

Lysander and the redheaded bastard are just a few yards ahead of you, and the former offers you a nod of greeting. You would nod back, but you can't because you've made a misstep. Literally. A chunk of uneven sidewalk has tripped you up. Although you'd normally be able to regain your balance in the face of such a minor predicament on the pavement, you're feeling pretty dizzy. You're enervated and you can't catch yourself, so you prepare for the concrete to do it for you.

It never does. There's a streak of black and mint green, and the next thing you know someone has caught you. Your savior grunts a little with the effort of supporting your dead weight. You'd find your feet if you could, but that little stumble's thrown you way off balance. "Are you alright, Nathaniel?" Lysander. You should have figured. He's ironically observant for being someone so forgetful. You lift your head, about to thank him, tell him you're fine, and limp away in embarrassment. But before you can get the words out, bicolored orbs are flashing in alarm and he's turned to the smirking redhead. "Castiel, help me! He's bleeding!"

An irritated sigh, but he comes over nonetheless. "He's probably just faki-Jesus Christ! What the hell have you been doing, Mr. President?" What do they mean? Did the blood seep through your jacket too? "Um…" It's all you can say. Which is stupid and pathetic, you should be able to say something other than that. You painfully slide a hand to your back and rub your fingertips over the lightweight slate fabric. It's definitely damp. When you bring your fingers to your face, the orangish red glaze on them doesn't lie. Idly, you wonder if that happened when you hopped the fence.

"What happened?" Lysander's slowly straightening you and you can manage a stand this time. Castiel's hovering behind you, likely to catch you if you fall, no matter how much he might not want to. But you'll never allow yourself to fall in front of him. That would make your current situation even more pitiful. As is, you politely brush Lysander's hands from your shoulders and shake your head. "Ah, nothing to be concerned about." In all honesty, you can't think of a plausible excuse this time. This was not what it looked like when you fell down the stairs. This was not a run in with a wall or a tumble on the pavement.

"Why don't we take you to the nurse's office," the silver haired teen murmurs softly. You expect Castiel to complain with something along the lines of 'why we?' But he doesn't and that makes you all the more uncomfortable. You inch away from the two of them, shaking your head. "That won't be necessary. Thanks anyway."

You're sore and listless as ever, but you still quicken your pace to get into the building. Before you can resume your normal schedule, you're going to have to check out your back in the mirror. You need to measure the damage before you can go about hiding it. If the jacket is badly bloodstained, you're just going to have to put it in your locker. And hope you'd left something you could use to replace it with in there. But you're hopeful that it isn't that bad. After all, Lysander hadn't seen the blood until he was holding you up.

You slip into the downstairs boys' bathroom, and after making sure it's empty, you lock the main door. You've always found it a little strange that students have the ability to do so. That it's just a turn lock instead of one that needs a key. But you don't think about that now. Now you shrug off your jacket as gingerly as possible and ignore the flare of pain that inevitably follows. You critically hold it in front of you for examination. It was as you'd hoped, the stain isn't really that bad. One had to be close up to even see there was a stain, let alone recognize what kind of stain it was. Now to look at your back itself.

You turn around, neck craning to study what's reflected in the mirror. Your shirt is definitely ruined. Bright drying crimson blooms beneath the starched white material in a series of somewhat diagonal, and most definitely horizontal ovals. There's six of them exactly. Two small ones in between your shoulder blades, one medium-sized right in the middle of your back, and three larger ones right in a row on your lower back. Tugging up the damaged shirt with your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you study the injuries themselves.

Some minuscule buckle-inflicted scratches dance around the baleful gashes and not an inch of flesh is bruise free. Dull violet, fallow brown, and Prussian blue swirl and splash in-between and all around the open cuts, a morbid masterpiece on a human canvas. You didn't notice, but your hands started shaking. You mentally curse, pull your shirt back down, and unlock the door. You tug your jacket back on and leave. Sluggish steps carry you to the student council room, practically on autopilot. Somewhat genuinely comfortable to be in this place where you can actually make yourself useful and forget your problems, you plaster a smile on your face and start organizing cafeteria menus.


	2. Imma liar

** Author's Note: Well, I lied. This isn't a crappy oneshot. It's a crappy twoshot, or maybe threeshot. To be fair, I didn't know I was lying when I lied. I thought this was going to be a oneshot, but I got a few suggestions to make it longer. So I did. It should be noted that the following text does not take place after any specific period of time following the first chapter, but does fall in continuity with the game. I think anyway…Mentioned the chick in the manga and that obviously differs, so I don't even know...Craving some cup noodles :l**

You know you should pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and act like everything is normal. That's what you always do. To keep up a benign charade and even pretend it's real for a little while is another constant in your life and it's one you don't want to lose. So really, instead of just laying here on the carpet and wondering what part of you the ruby that stains said carpet has come from, you should get up and kick yourself into gear like you do every day. But you just can't.

Because today is different. Because _she_ ratted you out to _him_.

Your sister told your father everything about that stupid band and concert you should have known better than to participate in. Honestly, why did you even offer to be their drummer? Did you really think your parents wouldn't find out about it? Although in truth and to give you credit where it is due, you had almost gotten away with it. You had your fun and they were none the wiser for awhile. About what, three, four days? Until you yelled at Amber. Well, yelling would be exaggerating. You're very patient with your sister. All you did was firmly suggest she leave Lynn alone and grow up a little.

So what did she do? She went to your parents and told them everything, flashing you that spiteful, victorious look of hers with her round aquamarine eyes. Eyes as precious as gems to Daddy Dearest, who wasted no time punishing you. Lying to him about where you where for three weeks? Participating in juvenile recreation when you could have been doing something useful with yourself? Wasting all that time to learn how to drum to begin with? Oh man, he was pissed off. All it took was the icy incensed glare he shot you to know you were really in for it this time.

The whole time he was smashing you into the wall, you clenched your jaw and refused to apologize. Apologizing might've ended your punishment sooner, but you didn't care. With each furious slam into the bluish gray wallpaper, your own anger burned in the pit of your stomach. Not at your father, not really. You expected him to act this way. This was the norm, and though it irked you, you stopped getting worked up over it a long time ago. But you didn't expect Amber to blab about the concert and willingly throw you to this kind of pain. You've always found your sister to be conceited and uncaring to the difference in the way your father treats you, but not outright a factor. You never ever thought her cruel enough to have her hand in subjecting you to abuse (you hate that word, why is that word even in your vocabulary?).

When your legs gave out on you, he grew tired of thrusting you into the decorated concrete that held up your roof. He settled on beating you with your mother's ironing board and you spent this brutal duration of bruises forming to reflect on what you consider your sister's betrayal. Bitch. If you had the energy left you might even be bitter enough to subject her to your own subtle, passive-aggressive punishment. Never anything she would think to pin on you, because then she would just have a field day whining to your father about how mean you were to your precious little sister. A punishment that could pass as a teacher's doing or simple bad luck. Being student council president has such perks.

You reach out and touch the small red imperfection in the ecru carpeting and absently realize it's going to stain. Heh. You're probably going to be punished for that too. You'd smirk at the irony, but with ceaseless agony riddling your torso and persistent pangs in particular places, you can't even bring yourself to do that. The soft sound of footfalls diverts your attention and you refrain from touching the blood, lest he thinks you're spreading the stain on purpose. It is honestly another passive-aggressive action of rebellion you might have considered if it didn't hurt this bad. But it does.

"You really should stay home this time," breathes your mother in a quiet rasp. You relax slightly knowing its not him, and he's already off driving your sister to school. And likely stopping to pick her up a small breakfast sandwich from some greasy fast food joint to make her feel better, since her brother was _so_ mean to her. "I plan to," you answer simply. For once you allow it all to just get to you. You allow yourself to not even try. There's no point in trying when there's nothing left in you. "Do you need help, Nath?" She takes a few dithering steps closer.

Now she wants to help. Now that he's done acquainting your appendages with the wall, now that his shouts are a memory stale in the air, now that her ironing board has returned to its occupation of household utility instead of weapon. Of course she wants to help now that the damage is done. But you swallow down the sour taste in your mouth and the resentful insults on your tongue. Don't take it out on her. You're in pain and your resolve is frayed so you're being unfair. Your mother is your last ally in this house. So she wants to help now, that's better than not offering her hand at all. "No," you reply, "I think I'll just lay here for awhile."

"Okay..." She lingers in the room. She's probably really worried about your condition and waiting for a signal to appease these worries. A word or a gesture to let her know you're fine. But even though you told yourself not to be aggrieved, you honestly can't give her one. You're just too empty. "I'll go call you in sick." She lingers for another few stilted moments and then you hear her low, departing footsteps. You should get up, you know. But you can't even find the motivation to search yourself for the strength to make an attempt. That in itself should be of concern to you. But it isn't.

Things are better when you wake up. You don't even remember closing your eyes, let alone falling asleep, but you know you must have. The ruby on the floor has congealed to a crimson-turning-brown and the sun is shining brightly through the window. You are in its warm, shimmery beam. And you illogically think to yourself that you must be soaking up its nutrients like a photosynthesizing plant, because things _are_ better. Your aching body is still aching, but the pain is dulled enough for you to get up. Wincing softly, you lean back against the very wall that battered you this morning and take a moment to get your bearings right.

You limp down the hallway and to your bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. The alarm clock on your bed reads that its noon and you're surprised that you were out for so long. Then again, it makes sense. You didn't sleep very well last night because you knew what you would have to endure this morning. Last night was when Amber told him about the concert. Last night was when he gave you that glare that promised your demise. Penalty, at the very least. You pull open your closet door and stare into the attached full-length mirror, gauging what damage said penalty has done.

One side of your jaw is swollen and faintly bruised. This is a rarity because he usually avoids the face. It just goes to show how much you really pissed him off this time. Your lip is open on the same side, leading to a generous trail of dried crimson down your chin. A similar spectacle trails from your nostrils and collects in an unsightly crust on your upper lip. Your nose itself is slightly tumid and for a brief second, you consider the possibility it's broken. How stupid of you. Your father has never gone that far before, and even if he did slip up, it would appear worse. It'd be discolored or misshapen. Such injuries are obvious that way.

You conclude that your facial impairments must have been suffered when he took the ironing board to you, because they're all on that side and consistent with where you were struck. Wait...You're starting to sound a lot like those detective novels you read so much. You smile faintly in amusement at the realization. But it vanishes with the next realization that smiling hurts. It's mainly your upper body that being smashed into the wall afflicted. Serious bruising and welts creep across your pale flesh, looking even more painful than the twinges you feel. But you didn't need the mirror to see those. You're shirtless. You didn't even have time to dress this morning, when he dragged you out of bed and to your retribution. You set the alarm early this morning hoping to evade that, but alas, luck was not on your side (it's never on your side).

With one last glance over your damaged reflection, you make your way over to your bed. Your mattress is much more comfortable than the floor and it welcomes you into its cushy embrace. You know you should be in the bathroom, cleaning the blood from your face, but you're not going anywhere today so there is really no point. Instead you sink into the comforter and thank the universe for small pleasures. It hasn't completely screwed you over today. Trying to imagine not thinking about your sister's untimely betrayal, you pick up the book that rests against your alarm clock.

It deviates slightly from your normal reading choice. Though still a crime novel, this one is not a lone, detail-rich, lengthy story. It contains various shorter stories from different authors. From psychotic arsonists to methodical serial killers, it's chock full of mystery and diverse aberrant entertainment. As your bleary eyes skim over the vacant flyleaf, you make the observation that today has just been one contrast from what's typical to the next. Laughing at this for whatever inappropriate reason, you choose to put the book down and bury your throbbing face into your pillow.


	3. Da hell am I doing

**Author's Note: Well, here's the crappy third part I said I might do. And it's the last one. Cause I'm already poking a dead body with a stick. No need to draw it out any further. I suppose I should warn that at this point any possible canon fragments have pretty much flown out the window, due to my own selfish needs to take abuse up to eleven. My sincerest apologies. You can just consider this part nonexistent if that makes it any better. ****Oh, and there's a reference or two to the manga in this. Cause in the manga Nat's into boxing and that's sexy as hell and convenient as fuck. **

You should have known he would go too far eventually.

Violence always escalates. Whether intentional or not, if it's there and if it's continuous, it will get worse.

So you should have known that he would go too far.

It's an accident, but it happens nonetheless. You're fighting at the top of the stairs, with him snapping insults and you biting your tongue. You stay mute and stand firm against the accusations and the curses for two main reasons. The first being that whatever you say probably won't help the situation, because when it comes to your father everything you say is the wrong thing anyway. The second being that silence is your weapon against him. Your own little 'fuck you' because even though whatever you say is wrong, he still wants you to say _something_. He wants an apology or a plea or a promise you'll be better. He must be so caught up in his fury and your petty, wordless defiance that he doesn't notice where you are. He forces you back with a hefty shove from both hands.

Only there's nothing there for you to step back on. Because right behind you is the carpeted flight of stairs and the realization turns your blood cold for the mere millisecond you have to reflect on it. You're sent tumbling backwards down the steps head over heels, some sound of surprise wrenched from your throat as you sprawl straight for the bottom. The trip must not take any longer than ten seconds. You land with an unsettling thunk and all thoughts and sensations temporarily abandon you. Your unfocused gaze drifts up to the staircase you just rolled down from, the stairs your father is currently jogging down. You absently make the observation that he looks as horrified as you suppose you should feel. But of course, he didn't mean it (intention or not, he's guilty as sin).

You awkwardly shift yourself into a kneeling position just as he reaches you and your mother darts in from the kitchen doorway. The delayed feelings rush back to you all at once in an overwhelming tidal wave, and you dizzily press a hand to your pulsing temple. A deep burning in your side greets you with relentless malice, inexplicably painful and like nothing you've ever felt before. And the next thing you know, you're coughing. Opened your trap to allow the thin whimper of agony inside you to escape your lips, only for a cough to interrupt and turn into a brittle fit. You clamp your free hand over your mouth and ignore the throbbing this act incites in your shoulder. A sickly warm wetness fills up your palm and begins leaking through your fingers and collecting in a small puddle on the space of floor in between your knees.

Your eyes zero in on the tiny puddle and you're not surprised in the lest to see that it's red. A bit startled, but not surprised. Your parents are panicking, father shouting at your mother as she rapidly dials for an ambulance. But you're calm. Hazy, but collected. You suppose you shouldn't be, since you are now gasping for breath and that little red puddle is getting bigger and bigger before your eyes. But you are. You lower your hand from your mouth in an attempt to make the laborious task of breathing easier and the blood wastes no time overflowing the sides of your hand and splashing onto the floor. The small ruby pool sitting pretty in your palm and glistening under the overhead electric light is the last thing you see before your vision fails you and the world slips away.

There are voices. Urgent ones and quick ones.

An unfamiliar female face. She has dark skin and appears to be Indian.

You smell something like disinfectant or plastic and then you're out again.

The steady beeping of a machine is the first sound you make out when the fog laden over your senses finally begins to lift. Your eyes follow suit and creak open, blearily sweeping over your surroundings. Stark white walls. An aster blue tile floor. There's a window next to a closed door, but shades that match the walls prevent you from seeing what lies beyond it. You try to sit up, only to grimace and stay where you are. Whatever it is that the IV you're hooked up to is pumping your veins full of, it can't be pain medication.

"Finally come around, have you?"

You glance to the other occupant of the room, a tall man looking nice and spiffy in his white coat and glasses. He's smiling and his eyes are dripping benevolence, the perfect picture of polite and friendly. It's probably supposed to comfort you, but all it does is piss you off. You want to rip the shining smile from his face and shove it down his throat until he chokes on it. But you nod. You want to say yes and ask all of what happened, fill in the blanks of what you don't remember, but your throat is much too dry. So you nod and he must have read your expression, because he goes on to explain.

Explains that the fall down the stairs broke one of your ribs. Which proceeded to impale one of your lungs. Which effectively left you drowning in your own blood. Explains that they've already cut you open and fixed that problem with some kind of fancy blood vacuum while you were dead to the world. Explains that you're lucky and that you're going to be just fine and dandy. But you have to stay here for at least a week. This makes you cringe and shrivel a little inside, because a week in this place sounds like the equivalent of purgatory. Oh, and there's one more thing...

"Your x-rays showed evidence of prior injuries."

You flutter a blink. His smile's still there, but you can see it cracking at the corners. His expression is virtually unreadable, but you see the expectation written there. You're supposed to say something. But what? Prior injur- Oh! Oh! It hits you so hard and so quick you feel like slapping your forehead. They know. Or if not know, then suspect. The healed impressions of your father's disdain seem to have lingered in more ways than one. And now this doctor is looking at you, patient and silently prompting and you can't find any words. You feel cold again, a bit like you did before you went sailing down the stairs. But it's not quite the same kind of cold. That cold was just dread and pure ice, and very immediate. This one is a steady coolness, nervous but accepting and oxymoronic with a few other emotions you're not going to spend the time sorting out.

"If someone is hurting you, we can help."

And there, now the prompting isn't silent anymore. Now the prying is verbalized and you feel like the warmth in this man's tone is just a bit too precise. You absently wonder just who exactly 'we' is before you shake your head and offer a practiced smile. "You've got it all wrong. I box. Regularly. It gets me pretty beat up sometimes, you know? But you should see the other guys." You've never been the greatest at lying, but you're not horrible at it either. You've had to rely on excuses to bail you out of problematic truths before. Habitually spinning falsehoods has earned you enough confidence to believe that this one should suffice.

It does. The doctor chuckles and apologizes for the misunderstanding, it's just that they have to be _so_ careful. He departs with the quip that your family has been very anxious to see you and you know that means that it's only a matter of minutes before they'll be barging in here. You get an acerbic taste in your mouth and feel an insignificant prickle of loathing crawl up your spine. But you ignore it in favor of keeping yourself focused and smiling when the people you're apparently linked to by blood come loping into the room. Your mother's still crying with a makeup streaked tissue in hand and sobs still bubbling out of her throat that muffle her words. She wants to hug you, you can see her muscles tense from restraining the impulse. You're grateful she does.

You sister isn't crying but you get the idea that she has been. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair is much messier than she'd ever willingly let it be. It looks like she's been running her fingers through it. Running her fingers through her hair when she's anxious is one of Amber's many quirks that she never grew out of (has she ever _really_ grown out of anything?). Your father is stiff and rigid, pale in complexion and unusually subdued. When he speaks, it's the gentlest voice he's used with you in months, possibly years. Because he's sorry. Oh god, is he sorry! He won't apologize aloud now because of where you are, but you see all the 'I'm sorrys' swimming in his gaze like fish. And in spite of yourself, in spite of the hospital bed you lie in and the traces of pain when you breathe, you still feel like you should tell him he's forgiven.

A part of you feels like that, anyway.

As sorry as he is, as apologetic as all the unspoken words that thicken the air between you two are, you can still see a thorn in his eye. The thorn that says he's not _fully_ to blame here. That if you weren't so clumsy you could have regained your footing when he shoved you. That if you weren't so stubborn or useless you wouldn't have been fighting with him in the first place. So you aren't completely forgiving. You aren't completely willing to reassure him that you will let bygones be bygones. You drily wonder to yourself why his eyes beg so much for that clemency anyway. Your opinions aren't worth shit to him. But you _are_ willing to reassure him of the fact that you're okay. You reassure all three of them of that, with a plastic smile and tired eyes.

You're not sure how many taxing minutes tick by until visiting hours are strictly over-even for family, and they're finally ushered out. And you're not sure how many minutes you spend staring up at the ceiling when it really dawns on you that you could've died today. Today your father almost killed you. You were drowning in your own blood. Your very own liquid life source was filling your lungs and cutting off your air supply. You have a future that was nearly cut short and potential that brushed an ending before you've even glimpsed a second decade. You could have died. You almost died. He almost killed you. It's really sinking in now and you feel positively frostbitten. And like vomiting.

The ceiling above starts to blur and you're nominally stunned to discover that there is moisture welling in your eyes. You blink it away and for a fraction of a second reconsider your choice to keep quiet about your home situation. For just the breath of an instant you want to tell them everything and allow yourself liberation from that house and the bastard who calls himself a parent. But that isn't really a possibility. You'll stick out your time here with your mouth shut and then return to that volatile household like you always do. You're just going to have to be extra careful about where you're standing the next time your father has it out for you. For a heartbeat even more short-lived than your first ridiculous consideration, you muse that perhaps he's so wracked with guilt about going too far that he'll actually give up using you as a punching bag for good. But that notion is so utterly ridiculous that it makes you laugh out loud.

And oh, does it hurt to laugh! It aches bitterly and it's probably on the list of things least medically recommended for you to do right now. But you just can't help it! It's just too funny. You end up laughing yourself to a torrent of tears. And then, for a snippet of a moment even shorter than your second absurd consideration, you cogitate that perhaps you were never laughing at all. Perhaps you were just crying the whole time but you're too damn tough to admit it.


End file.
